


Devils' Pastime

by m1blue



Category: Original Work
Genre: Incest, M/M, Rape, Religion, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24292678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m1blue/pseuds/m1blue
Summary: Satan bonds with his son in the way only monsters can.
Relationships: Mephistopheles/Satan
Kudos: 7





	Devils' Pastime

**Author's Note:**

> August 11, 2013

Mephistopheles, as he was known to his fathers above and below, was the first and most hated son of Satan. The implications made him gasp out a chortle even as his father’s teeth sank into his neck and blood flooded his mouth. He coughed and laughed droplets into the golden hair of the once most beautiful angel while his clawed fingers twisted in the curling locks and pulled.

Satan’s eyes smoldered envy-green when he raised them to meet Mephistopheles’ own deep, dark blue ones. Though hatred twisted his features, hatred directed at him, Mephistopheles found Satan to still be the pinnacle of God’s creations. Nails tore blindly at what little of his robe remained as though seeking a heart he never had, while the Accuser glared at him and pushed his leg aside.

“What is it, o my child,” he began, angelic voice warped into guttural remnants of fury and agony, “that makes you laugh so?”

“You, o my father which art in hell. You who are so full of wisdom, and perfect in beau–” Satan reared up from the shreds of flesh that curled in obscene ribbons across Mephistopheles’ thighs and brought his hand down hard across his cheek, breaking his son’s skin with bony knuckles. He choked on blood and his words, and spit out one needle-sharp tooth. “You shall not approach to any that is near of kin to you,” he continued with a crimson stained smirk, a devil quoting scripture, Satan’s own progeny come to haunt him. “To uncover their nakedness.”

His final word petered out into a hiss as Satan returned to the task at hand and pressed himself into Mephistopheles. At the first full thrust he found himself writhing and shrieking, claws cutting long, thin gouges across Satan’s broad shoulders that leaked lava-hot blood onto his flesh and made sulphuric tears leak down his face and mingle with his blood.

Satan shoved Mephistopheles down, freeing himself from the convulsive grip, and slammed himself back into his son, producing another scream, the crack of some bone or another, and several more attacks against his chest. He pulled himself out, leaving Mephistopheles sprawled with blood oozing down his thighs.

“Oh, o my father,” he gasped, blue gaze hazy with pain indistinguishable from pleasure. He threw an over-dramatic arm across his eyes, attempting to take in air through a torn throat and crushed ribs.

Before he could recover Satan grabbed his free arm and yanked, throwing him down one of the steep, rocky ledges to the tune of more shot-like snaps of bones and pained moaning once Mephistopheles stilled. He watched as his son beat stained, bent wings weakly, trying to pick himself up off the ground, before sliding down in a shower of scree and grasping the back of his head.

He smashed Mephistopheles face-first into the stone and quickly reached his other hand around his hip to pull him to shaky knees. As Satan entered him the third time, slicked by blood, he flapped his wings again in a futile attempt at escape. Satan tore at the feathers jealously, scattering them all through the barren, scalding wasteland that he inhabited. When muscle and tendons became visible he leaned down, putting his full weight on Mephistopheles as he pistoned his girth into the yeilding body.

“But these, o my son, as natural brute beasts, made to be taken and destroyed, speak evil of things that they understand not.” Satan listened a moment to Mephistopheles’ muffled begging, for more and for him to stop, then reached between his legs and took hold of his length, hard and heavy and hot. “And shall utterly perish in their own corruption,” he continued, squeezing and twisting in time with his thrusts.

Weak, disoriented fingers found their way to Satan’s fist, tugging at it as though to remove it, and Mephistopheles attempted to lift himself up. Prayers to God for death crescendoed as Satan bit into the base of his neck, severing his spine, and he went completely malleable, for the moment at least. Satan pressed his lips to Mephistopheles’ ear, exploring the shell with a wet, hot tongue before whispering, “He shall cry unto me, Thou art my father, my God, and the rock of my salvation.”

He nuzzled Mephistopheles’ head to the side in an almost affectionate gesture as the son obeyed his father. “Thou – thou art my father,” he sobbed through tears and blood. Satan rubbed the pad of his thumb across the leaking slit. “M-my father –” he stilled his rutting and dug a nail in, causing a spurt of blood and low wail. It was always the small things that had Mephistopheles shivering.

“You already said that,” he admonished just as gently as he’d nuzzled.

“My God,” Mephistopheles managed, spreading his legs a little wider when Satan began moving again, finding a rhythm at just the right, sharp angle. “The rock oh – ohohoh.” He dragged his fingers over the rock, breaking several claws and leaving the long nails still with some flesh attached embedded in the rock. Satan sped up. “Oh, my salvation!” Mephistopheles howled, shaking free more loose debris with the length and loudness of it.

He came onto Satan’s fingers, body constricting around the hardness inside of him. Several more thrusts into the squirming, convulsing body below him and Satan was filling Mephistopheles with his damned seed. He gave a thin, warbling cry of pain as Satan pulled out, leaving trails of sizzling, scarring white across his buttocks and legs.

Mephistopheles collapsed as soon as Satan took away his support, and attempted to but failed to curl in on himself, glaring at his father with watery eyes. Satan wiped a hand across the crevice between his cheeks and leaned forward to smear their mixed cum across that glare. Mephistopheles jerked back as it crackled and his vision went dark, but he couldn’t rouse himself to any more protests.

“O my first and most hated of sons,” Satan cooed, drawing circles of cum, tears, and blood across Mephistopheles’ face. He traced his finger to busted lips and slipped one in. Obediently Mephistopheles suckled and teased with his sandpaper tongue. “I beseech thee, torment me not.”

“O my father,” Mephistopheles returned, breaking from their taunting tête-à-tête as he spoke around the finger exploring his mouth. “I only wish that I could.”

While Mephistopheles cleaned his mess, Satan traced the damage wrought with his other hand. Nose shattered, throat barely healed and still exposing a ribbed esophagus, spinal column slowly knitting back together, bone exposed. Scratches, slashes, a dislocated shoulder, bit of red and white bone sticking through his arm, wheezing from shattered ribs and punctured lungs. Bruises from internal bleeding, bite marks, scrapes from the fall. Tainted feathers everywhere, fluttering about and catching fire or drifting away into the unknown. Everything from bit of scalping to a swollen, twisted ankle showed damage of one type or another. This must have been what God felt like when crafting Lucifer. Mephistopheles was gorgeous, a work of art shaped by Satan’s own hands.

He returned his attention to Mephistopheles’ work, only to find him asleep, unconsciously sucking at his middle finger like a teat. Satan pulled his finger free, cutting it open on his son’s teeth, and lay down next to him. He pressed his body to Mephistopheles’, matching their forms together, and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

When he woke next, Satan would make sweet love to him and whisper sweet lies and send him back into the world, to be the condemner of men with a satiated smile on his face. And when he returned from his God-given mission, Satan would tear him apart, take out all his blame and jealousy and rage and lust upon Mephistopheles’ unwilling person, until he was willing and begging for it. Until he worshiped his father below rather than above. The condemned and condemner, father and son, damned to repeat this battle for all eternity.


End file.
